Mirage
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Hell is empty, and all the devils are here...


**Mirage

* * *

**

Sam isn't entirely sure what he'd expected when he got out of Hell. To be honest, he hadn't expected to get out of Hell in the first place, so really, his first glimpse of Earth was like spending a year in the Sahara, subsisting on only enough food and water to live, and then stumbling upon a buffet complete with water, or wine, or beer, or _anything_ for that matter. He'd been skeptical at first, give him some credit; this wouldn't be the first mindfuck of Hell's that he'd gone through.

But somehow…he knew. He knew it was real. The grass felt real underneath his feet, the smell of newly rain-dampened pavement was a pleasant acrid-fresh, the wind blowing gently on his skin was like heaven.

In fact, it was all like heaven. At least…until it wasn't.

He'd thought he was imagining it the first time it happened. His neighbor—if you could call him that; Sam'd managed to find a rundown house in which he could squat, a house which happened to share a yard with a trailer belonging to a Mr. Jones—glanced over at him one day, and for a second…well, for a second, Sam _could have sworn_ his eyes went black. But when Sam blinked, Jones's eyes were still the same murky brown.

Sam shook his head and brushed it away. An aftereffect of Hell, he surmised. He was bound to have some of those.

The next time it happened, it was easier to write off than the first. He'd needed cash, so relied on the Winchester way: hustling. Except he'd ended up legitimately smashed, and although he still won—because even when drunk he's a damn good pool shark—he'd inhaled so much alcohol that his vision got blurry. And when he made eye contact with the dude he'd beaten, he _could have sworn_ the guy's face phased to a monster, glowing orange irises and all, but then Sam refocused, and the guy was back to his steroidal self.

The third time it happened, it took some involved finessing to pretend it didn't. He'd been sober as nothing else, been out caching some OJ and non-perishables, of all things. His purchases added up to just under forty dollars, and he handed the kind old lady cashier a fifty. When she turned around to give him his change, he _could have sworn_ her smile stretched to unnatural proportions, her hair falling out and her skin turning gray and rotting. But when she touched his hand, concerned at the look of horror on his face, he saw that she was normal. A kind old lady. He mumbled a thank you—he thought—and got out of there like he was being chased by Hell itself. It was a few days before he fully convinced himself he was just tired, or something, and he was all to happy to accept that.

The fourth time it happened, he was asleep. Not sound asleep, but asleep nonetheless. To this day, he's not exactly positive what it is he dreamt about; all he knows is that he woke with a gasp, sweat dripping down his chest and back, soaking his hair to his forehead. The throbbing, pulsing eyes that had been in his nightmare glowed in the dark for a moment or two, then vanished. They weren't real, Sam told himself. And he tried to believe it, he did.

When it plagued him again, it wasn't just visual, wasn't just a mirage. He was by himself, staring up at the stars like he'd used to do with Dean, then felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He jolted around to where he sensed the threat was, but a second too late. He couldn't see his attacker, but the pain he experienced from being hurled into a brick wall by an invisible force was all too vibrant. He felt the sticky, warm consistency of blood cascade down his head, and he _could have sworn_ he heard a chuckle, before he drowned in unconsciousness.

It wasn't a single day when the onslaught started, not really. Day by day, sometimes not even every day, it would happen. The more often it did, the harder it became for Sam to ignore it. Bright red eyes here, causeless shadows there, bruises from being thrown around here, cackling echoes there. At first, he hadn't wanted to admit it, but then he came to acknowledge that it was all in his head. Had to be. No one else noticed the phenomena, anyway.

It got to the point where Mr. Jones, slimy neighbor though he was, trudged across the yard, walked through Sam's unhinged front door. "Ian," he called—for that was the name Sam'd adopted—stepping further into the room. "Y'all right, man? I was—"

He halted mid-sentence when he felt himself being slammed up against one of the wilting walls, a vice grip around his throat. "Who—_What_—are you?" Sam demanded.

"Ch—Chr—Christ, I—" Mr. Jones sputtered around Sam's hand.

Sam's murderous haze cleared, Mr. Jones's form going back to normal, and he dropped his hand, horrified. "I'm—I'm sorry…"

Mr. Jones stared at Sam, terror in his own expression. "You messed up…" he murmured, before skedaddling. Sam heard neither hide nor hair from him again.

He no longer drove his stolen truck; the roads melded together like a long black constrictor, the other drivers becoming slithering masses of smoke. He could no longer go to the supermarket; the boxes and lights and frigid air assaulted his senses with intensity that made him feel like he was being pierced with a thousand knives. He felt himself wasting away, but he weighed the pros and cons, and truthfully, his rundown shack, even with no food and only the bottled water he'd stockpiled from weeks ago, was a fuckload better than Out There.

Which all went to shit one day in June, when some tendrils of wind sauntered their way through the cracks in the wood, the untended seal between the windows and their frames. Whispers joined the wind, slicing through Sam's ears and curving under his nose, around his mouth. Taunting. They curled against his skin, tightened his clothes.

It took all his concentration to break their spell, to scramble up from the corner of the room and out the door. He was glad it was dusk; the sun of an Indiana June was killer. Even still, as he ran on thinner legs and atrophied muscles, the concrete was hard, too hard, underneath his feet, the breeze keeping him cruel company. He didn't quite know where he was going; he'd only been to the town once.

He'd wonder later if it was just his fair-weather friend, the wind, who guided him, but somehow, someway, he ended up on a doorstep. He paused, lungs begging for help, and collapsed, his shoulder hitting the door before coming to a stop on the top step.

Before his eyesight went black, he heard the door open, heard a screech, heard an exclamation starting with a D, though he couldn't be fucked to know what it was, then…nothing. Darkness. He swam once more in his own head, fought against the eyes and the shadows and the twisting turns of his brain.

* * *

_Seven weeks later…_

"How's he doing?" asks Lisa; Dean is by her side, but unsure. He'd taken the call, couldn't really process it.

"He's awake," answers Sam's doctor, Dr. Carmichael, a clipboard held loosely in her hand. "You want to see him?"

Lisa gives a perfunctory glance towards Dean before replying, "Of course."

"This way."

They're led down a path that's both familiar and not, the hallways of the hospital identical, but Sam's room in a different location than before. Lisa wonders if it's good or bad.

Dr. Carmichael stops at a room 217, opens the door and allows Lisa and Dean to walk in. Dean immediately takes the chair furthest from Sam's bed, unable to look at his brother. Lisa runs her fingers gently through Dean's hair before walking to the side of Sam's bed, looking down at him. She leans down a few inches, touches a hesitant hand to his forehead. His face is pale, cringingly so, his hair lank. She'd only met him once before she found him unconscious on her front step, but he'd looked awful, looked much too…_wrong_ from what she'd remembered. _Still_ looks awful.

She looks up at Dr. Carmichael in confusion; the doctor had said Sam was awake, but his eyes are closed, his breathing measured. Dr. Carmichael merely nods. "Sam?" Lisa whispers. "Sam, it's Lisa. And…and Dean."

At her soft voice, Sam's eyes slowly open. He'd known vaguely that he wasn't quite right, that he was in some sort of coma, or lengthened dream, or something, kept company by shadows and swirling figures, and isn't sure why he's wakened. But Lisa's voice, her gentle words, _Dean_, it opens a crack in his mind, a veil to consciousness, and he takes it.

His eyes open fully, then widen.

"Sam?" Lisa asks again, her head tilted a little.

She smiles, her lips chapped, formerly thick hair ragged, half of her face peeled off, revealing blood and brackish muscle beneath. Bony fingers reach towards him, caress his face. Sam jerks his eyes towards the doctor. She has only sockets in her head, mouth ruby red against ash-white skin. And Dean. Well, as Sam stares at his brother, he sees a maniacal grin, a smirk.

"You really thought getting out of Hell would be a good thing?" Dean cackles gleefully, joining Lisa by Sam's bedside in movements too quick to be normal.

"Don't you know, Sam?" Lisa inquires, voice a sick cross between malevolent and lyrical as she presses herself against Dean, her fingers still stroking Sam's cheek.

She and Dean exchange an indulgent smile, then both look back at Sam. "Hell's empty, little bro," says Dean as he leans closer, white teeth sparkling in the now-flickering light of the hospital room. "And all the devils are here."

The light bursts, swathing the room in black.

Sam screams.


End file.
